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live-laugh-lenney · 26 days ago

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LOCKED IN | ARTHUR FREDERICK

a whole year and it's finally with you! thank you for all your patience and all your lovely messages and comments about this new chaptered fic; i'm so incredibly excited (and incredibly nervous) to share it with you and show you the project i've been working on these last twelve months. i wanted it to be absolutely perfect before you got your hands on it. feedback is always welcomed and my inbox is always open so please, please, please don't hesitate to let me know your thoughts on the story. enjoy! <33

- C H A P T E R O N E -

“I’m actually terrified.”

The black car, donned with the FootAsylum logo that had been printed on the back passenger doors, rolled up the gravel driveway and stopped before a modern-looking home hidden deep in the countryside of a place she could tell was hours from home. With her phone being taken away and with nothing to keep her occupied, except picking at her nails nervously or chewing on the inside of her mouth, she couldn’t keep track of the hours she’d been sat in the car… but given the numb bum and the sickly feeling from the rumble of the car and having nothing to eat due to her nerves, she would have guessed her travel time had been, at least, two hours. Studio lights littered around to keep the grounds lit so everyone knew where they were going, the house being illuminated and almost in a spotlight to give it a real studio vibe, and it had finally set in her mind rather quickly that this was her reality for the next two weeks. The nerves that she tried to hide, swallowing back every lump in her throat and ignoring every bad thought that crossed her mind, were slowly coming back to haunt her and her knees couldn’t stop bouncing in the footwell in the back seat.

“This is terrifying.”

Once the car came to a stop at the end of the driveway, she took a moment to herself.

The driver sat in the front, plugging in a destination into his built-in sat-nav that would either be taking him home or back to a building where the producers and the directors of the show were all huddled inside, yet she couldn’t bring herself to be nosey. And as her hand came to clasp around the handle of the backdoor, she could see her hand shuddering with uncertainty. There was no chance she was backing out of this opportunity now; it was the first day and she wanted to prove to people she could do this. That she was worthy of a place in the house. Having been on the Youtube scene for just over 12 months, she never thought her first year would end in her being part of a reality show centred around those with huge followings and a name for themselves and she wanted to show how serious she was about taking any given opportunity in her grasp and enjoying every moment life had to offer her.

Once she saw who she was going to be locked into a home with for two weeks, she did some digging on just who they were, putting a face to a name and googling them in hopes to find their social media accounts. Gaining the basic information and following their Instagrams and subscribing to their Youtube channels so she could scope out everyone as to not seem so clueless once she walked into the house.

So she knew of a few of them.

It was nerve-wrackingly brand-new for her and it was something she never imagined herself doing when she posted her very first Youtube video just a short twelve months ago; being pushed into a house with nine other Youtubers who were practically strangers to her and, in that moment and before she met then, it was something she considered to be almost as bad as a worst nightmare.

The gravel rocks and the tiny stones of the pathway crunched beneath her trainers as she neared where she assumed the front door to the house was. Her eyes scanned across the wooden panelling of the front and she truly felt like an idiot, even more so because of the cameras hidden in every nook and cranny around her that would pick up her dumbfounded moments, as she tried to find a door handle or a doorbell that would somehow get her into the warmth of the house. The black bag on her shoulder which she, and the entire cast of the second season, had been asked to advertise as they walked up the entrance, kept slipping down to her elbow and eventually she gave up adjusting it and just let it swing to and fro as she questioned everything happening before her.

“How the hell do I get in? Is this a challenge or something? I feel like I’m being punked here.”

There was a gentle change in the way the wall was built and she pushed a panel to make the front door more noticeable, revealing the entrance hallway of the place that was going to be her new home for the next fortnight. Light strips coloured with neon green lighting her way, stuck to the walls and almost guided her in the right direction of where everyone else seemed to have congregated, fitting the whole aesthetic and colour theme of how the show was advertised and promoted on the outside world. Lots of monochrome, blacks and whites, with a burst of colour that surrounded her. The heat of the inside immediately hit her as she stepped foot into the hallway and let the door close behind her with a whoosh, shutting by itself once it hit the frame of the doorway. The lights were bright, as opposed to the scenery of the sun setting upon her arrival, and she could hear the chaos of everyone already enjoying themselves and introducing themselves further to each other - and she secretly prayed that she wasn’t the last one to enter the house.

She took the chance to have a quiet glance around at where she was before she made her way into the centre of the house, cautious as she looked around to make sure no one was hiding and ready to jump out and make her jump, because that was the one thing she absolutely hated and she definitely would have held a grudge, mentally planning the next move in an unproposed prank war between herself and the housemates.

“There’s someone coming.”

“Guys, someone’s here!”

“Someone new!”

“Finally!”

“That makes ten of us. I reckon that’s all of us here.”

YN stood still on the spot, taking in the deepest intake of breath to prepare herself before she exhaled slowly through puckered lips, trying to rid herself of the nerves that were sitting low in her stomach and making her feel sick, to keep her heart from racing and thumping rapidly in her chest.

When she was first asked to be one of the housemates for that year, she thought it looked fun and she was always up for trying new things and stepping out of her comfort zone. She was the biggest advocate for telling people, through her Youtube videos, that they should try out new things because they’ll never know how they feel unless they gave it a go. She shook her limbs to rid the nerves making her shake and she rolled her neck, giving herself the quickest pep-talk in her mind, and she took the last few steps from the room she was standing in and into, what she could only guess was, their kitchen and dining area together.

“Hi!”

“Oh my god, hi!”

“Hello!”

She was overwhelmed with the greetings, dropping her plastic FootAsylum bag to the floor and feeling the warm embrace of someone instantly wrapping their arms around her, a sweet and floral smell of someone’s perfume filling her nose as she reciprocated the hug, long hair tickling at her nose. Her eyes darted from face to face, slightly overwhelmed yet the feeling had slowly felt less suffocating and she took the chance to bolden her demeanour. The males taking their time to come forward and introduce themselves yet the females wasted no time in wanting to get to know her, patiently waiting for their time to bring her into a hug and find out more about her.

“I’m Anastasia,” the girl introduced herself and YN introduced herself in response, and she gave YN one final squeeze before pulling away, stepping aside for someone else to take her place. YN had seen Anastasia on her Youtube recommendations, at a time when she started gaining inspiration on how she wanted to run her channel and a long while back when it was just a mere thought, and it was nice to be given the chance to meet her on a more personal level than just what she showed for the cameras and for her vlogs. “It’s so good to finally meet you!”

A short queue-like crowd of eight other people had formed around her and the nerves that had been sitting in her belly had almost disappeared once she realised they were all in the same boat - no one really knew anyone in this place, they were all there to get to know one another and they were all there to fight for the winning place. They were all there for the same reasons, all going through the same thing, feeling the same feelings and experiencing the experience together so it made everything feel much less intimidating.

She hugged everyone around her, introducing herself as they introduced themselves, and they seemed like a truly good bunch of people to spend the next fourteen days with and she was excited to form special friendships with the whole lot of them.

One guy hung behind from the introductions, waiting incredibly patiently, dressed in all black with the sleeves of his hoodie hiding his hands as his fingers played with the hem in a nervous manner. Brown hair upon his head, tousled and messy, and the most engaging brown eyes that didn’t seem to leave her face as he drank in everything about her. Every inch of his face was beautiful looking, sculpted perfectly, with the curve of the tip of his nose looking soft and the stretch of skin across his cheeks looking rosy and pink. She felt a connection to him, she felt easy around him without even knowing his name, and it was a feeling she couldn’t get rid of as if there was something that intrigued her about him that she was desperate to figure out.

“I’m Arthur. ArthurTV,” he grinned, almost hesitating as he went in to give her a hug, but barely resisting when she wrapped her arms around his neck and initiated the greeting between the two of them, forearms resting on his shoulders as her hands joined at the back of his neck, “it’s so lovely to meet you.”

“I’m YN,” she smiled softly to herself, reading off her Youtube name in a similar fashion to how he had introduced himself and he snickered softly as she pulled away from him and broadened the gap between their two bodies, “it’s lovely to meet you, too, Arthur.”

“Did you struggle as much as me to find the entrance to this place? Because I must have looked like a massive tit to the cameras when I walked straight past the entrance and round the corner in hopes I’d find a backdoor or something,” he admitted, a laugh following in suit as she giggled and shook her head, “honestly, I just hope everyone else did the same.”

“It took me ages to find the door. I didn’t walk past it but I just stood there, staring at it, trying to figure out what the hell was happening. Thought that if I stared long enough, I’d see into a void and it would just appear,” she admitted and shook her head at how silly she was going to look in the eyes of those watching when it went live over on Youtube, “we can both look like tits together, I guess. Great first impressions to the public and all.”

“I do say that we make quite the perfect pair,” he joked, internally wanting to crawl into a hole and disappear at how corny he must have sounded, except she laughed at his attempt at humour and he swore he felt butterflies in his belly, “come and get to know everyone properly. We think you were the last person to join us now there’s ten of us standing here.”

So she was the last.

She knew it.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦ ✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

It was Spuddz’s idea.

“Hot Seat! Let’s do Hot Seat.”

And YN couldn’t lie, the volume at which he suggested it had woken her up a little from her daze.

Her eyelids felt really heavy and her eyes were stinging, almost screaming at her to give in to the temptation of snoozing and go to nap, and that was probably due to the lack of sleep she’d gotten the night before her arrival into the house. Because all night, all she could think about was the worst of what was about to happen. In a situation unknown to her, with people she didn’t know well enough, all she could think about was how she’d be an outcast compared to everyone else.

She didn’t want to be the first one to announce her departure from the room, disappearing and missing out on the rest of the evening, just because she needed an hour's shuteye to feel a little more refreshed. But the warmth between the arm of the sofa and having Arthur seated beside her was enough to lull her into a state of complete peace and relaxation, almost completely at ease with everyone, listening to everything that was happening around her and chiming in with her own questions whenever she was prompted with something when they spoke about something that piqued her interest in the matter.

Arthur had been her saviour in the first few hours of being in the Locked In house.

She hadn’t been glued to his hip for the entirety of the evening… although she thought she had been. Since their first hello’s were shared just a few hours prior, she felt magnetised towards him. She wasn’t sure what it was about him but she felt like she could be herself around him… maybe it was because he had taken time to greet her and introduce himself, maybe it was because they had common traits that made them feel comfortable with each other, maybe it was because she found him attractive and wanted to get to know him more. She couldn’t put her finger on anything definite but he made her feel a sense of confidence within herself. Like she could do anything that FootAsylum threw at her.

She had taken time to pop over to the girls of the house and have a chat with them so she could understand who they were and what their personalities were like. And she had been indulged in a joke war with SomeJokeman when he broke their awkward silence by cracking out a ‘Knock Knock’ joke for her to answer. But she always found herself always gravitating back towards the brown-haired, brown-eyed man who kept himself to himself and let others involve him rather than forcing himself in conversations happening around him. He was the one who had shown her around the house, the one who let her know what bed was free and who had claimed certain spots to be theirs and he was the one who let her take in the surroundings on her own accord.

The late afternoon hours had passed by, although they had no idea on what the time was, and it felt like they’d known each other for longer than a mere few hours. Where everyone was bouncing off questions and getting to know one another in a setting that was getting quite loud and confusing, the suggestion of getting to know one another at the pace of one at a time was something they could all agree upon.

“We’re gonna put Jamie in the hot seat first,” Spuddz informed, letting the lad stand up from his place on the sofa and in front of everyone, “please, young man, state your name for the audience.”

“My name’s Jamie, otherwise known as LDN Movements,” he started off, clapping his hands and clasping them together in front of him in a nervous way, “is this how we do this? You ask me questions and I just answer them?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Spuddz nodded, “like an interrogation.”

And it began from there.

Question after question came out, and she couldn’t fault him and everyone else with how they dealt with the quickfire questions being thrown at them from all areas of the lounge room. Answering with detail and speaking with gusto and enthusiasm as they all took the chance to get to know one another; finding out what they were like as a person, what their Youtube careers was based upon, what they did when they weren’t filming and what their hobbies and passions in life were.

“YN! Our last little newcomer,” Steph grinned at her from the sofa on the right, wiggling her fingers in an attempt to get her to stand to her feet and take her place before everyone, “it’s your turn, darling.”

She sighed in feigned dramatics, rolling her head back against the sofa before smirking and standing to her feet, much to Arthur’s dismay as he felt the cold air take over where her warmth had once been.

“I’m YN, as you already know,” she smiled, drawing out a long curtsey before everyone, “I don’t really do very much, to be honest. I started out on Instagram, gained myself a good following of young people who were interested in reviews of different daily products and skincare routines and such, and I went from there. I’m a lifestyle Youtuber, I guess. Moved my content into a much longer form instead of small Instagram videos and stories.”

“What is a ‘lifestyle Youtuber’?” Johnny asked, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees, resting his chin on the palms of his hands, “I’ve never really heard of that.”

“I basically just vlog about my life? I don’t know how to explain it,” she felt her cheeks getting hot under Johnny’s gaze and she stared at the floor beneath the lightened oak coffee table in the centre of the room, “I film bits of my day, what I do, I never understand why people enjoy watching videos about my life but… they got me here. Which, of course, I’m so thankful for. So many opportunities have come my way since then and it’s all because of them.”

When she posted her first video, a ‘get to know me’ post that consisted of a compilation of frequently asked questions from her Instagram page that people wanted to know about her, she had no idea that she would be where she is now. A video where she opened up and shared more about herself and her personal life - from the quick and easy questions about her relationship status and her family life and where she grew up and what she studied in school to what she wants out of life and where she sees herself in five years time and what she thinks is the biggest issue in the world as we know it - had gotten her onto a pedestaled platform where, for the year, she had been able to share her tips and her tricks in how to get by in certain scenarios.

She vlogged her daily life, from the moment she woke up in the morning to the moment she laid her head down on her pillow at night, and people loved to see what she got up to. Her friends became constant guests in her videos, partaking in small challenges and Q and A’s that were topical to whoever she had on screen, and her fans loved to see her in her social group where she let her true enjoyment and her true self be seen.

She loved what she did.

She was lucky to be where she was.

She had a supportive following who loved her, supported her, made sure to help boost her name into the general public and she repaid them back by giving them back the amount of love that they gave to her.

And she wouldn’t change any of it for the world.

“Here, here,” Jamie cheered, “very lucky to have people watch us and support whatever we choose to do.”

“I don’t think any of us would be here,” YN pointed to the exact spot she was standing in with both of her pointer fingers, “without our subscribers and our followers. I thank my lucky stars every single day that I am where I am.”

Steph cooed softly at the words YN let slip off her tongue and she suddenly felt very open and vulnerable.

“Do you just post videos about a day in your life? Do you do challenge videos or react videos or anything like that?” Arthur asked, also following in suit of Johnny and leaning forward, placing his elbows on his knees and cupping his own face with his palms and as similarly as they were sat, she could look into Arthur’s eyes and speak to him, “do you just do reviews or?”

“I just do reviews, yeah. I don’t really focus much on the internet world and celebrities but more the real world and I just have a chat with the camera as if I was talking to my followers personally. I talk about topics people are chatting about all the time, what people comment about, and what’s trending. Whenever I get asked to do advertisements and such, I review different make-up products, skin care products, I show off my bedtime routine and my make-up routine and what products I use for skincare. I get sent clothes from various brands and do mini hauls, in the summer and the winter, on what I like and what suits me and what I would wear for specific occasions,” she grinned softly, “I should get you guys on. I think I could definitely use Arthur as a dummy to test out different make-up looks.”

Arthur blushed and shook his head, cackling softly, “I think you’re the more beautiful one out of us. You don’t need me to ruin it.”

“Arthur has rizz, you know!” Jokeman bellowed from beside him, clapping him on the shoulder as he blushed in his seat, “this is like a dating show, I’m telling you. Watch this space! Locked In is the new Love Island.”

There’s a chime that brings the conversation to a halt, saving Arthur from any more embarrassment from what the others had to tease him about, with the screen lighting up on the wall with an announcement, in the form of a tweet from Twitter, appearing on the screen.

From the moment she arrived, YN had been craving a bed.

As soon as her head hit the plush cushion at the height of the bed, her slippers having been kicked off at the side and her pillows plumped up so she could sleep a little more upright, she could feel her eyes getting heavier and heavier as she got more and more comfortable. Watching as everyone else readied themselves for bed, with make-up free faces and blankets wrapped around their shoulders, dressed in the comfiest of clothing as they went about their nightly routine. Teeth being brushed, faces being washed, clambering into bed before the lights went out.

To one side of her, she had Anastasia.

To the other side, she had Arthur.

A grin on his lips as he made eye contact with her from beneath the duvet that was pulled up to his chest, hair tousled and his fringe sticking to his slightly damp forehead from where he’d washed his face, cheeks red from where he had scrubbed his skin with a cleansing wash. Her cheeks flushing red once she realised he was looking at her and she giggled softly and shook her head at him, pulling her own duvet to her chin and nestling a little further down on the mattress.

“It was good meeting you, YN.”

“You say that like we’re gonna be apart forever after we close our eyes. Like we’re just gonna die and never wake up,” she snorted, rolling onto her side to face him better, “sucks for you that you’re gonna be stuck with me in here for the next two weeks.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad to me,” he hummed, closing his eyes and pretending to fall asleep, leaving her in a slight state of shock as she took in what he had said so nonchalantly.

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coco-loco-nut · 10 months ago

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die first

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max’s wife is an international superstar, who’s anxieties tend to show up in her songs

Inspired by: die first by Nessa Barret

requests open! masterlist prequel

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“What are you writing, Schatje?” Max asks, sliding onto the piano bench beside you.

“I wrote a song based on my vows,” you tell him, writing down the last couple chords, humming a rhythm to yourself.

Max, ever since I met you, I knew you were special. You’re my fire and my safety, you never try to break me, and you promise to always stay. I promise those same things to you. I don’t want to live without you, I never want to learn how to fall asleep without you, I want to be in love with you forever. You are my forever.

“Play it for me?” he asks when you finish, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. You nod, gently pressing the keys, mentally noting the kinks to fix before recording tomorrow. “It’s beautiful, the fans are going to love it, I love it,” Max compliments and you grin at him.

“I’m excited to announce the album and tour, and I’m glad we follow F1 around Europe. I get to spend more of summer with you that way,” you lean on his shoulder. You dedicated the album to him, and your third record is set to be the best selling one yet.

You took the unconventional route and took his last name after marrying him this year, despite having two hit albums and international fame. You still publish under your maiden name, but the name change caused a lot of shock.

You became an international superstar with your first release and it’s only grown since. Despite your relationship with Max spanning most of your music career, the both of you are able to spend a relatively low profile life in Monaco. Everything you record in the studio down the street is sent to your Hollywood label and released from there.

The next few months see you doing press for the surprise drop that was your bestselling third album and hyping the tour. Tour rehearsals fell during training time for Max and the both of you were going nonstop.

“I have to go to bed, Schatje, love you,” Max yawns over Facetime, you wish him goodnight as you stretch for your last show in North America. Tomorrow you jet to Europe to pick up that leg of the tour.

By the time you reach London, your tour has officially lined up with F1, which means your personal box near the stage is full of drivers, who likely are being bombarded with autograph requests. You slip into your black, sparkly bodysuit and matching hells; hair, makeup, and nails perfectly done; and grab your matching microphone before heading to your mark under the stage. The roar of the crowd energized you as the intro video plays.

“Come on London, let’s have some fun,” you say into the mic before smoke fills the stage above you and the trap door opens, the platform beneath you rising you up. You launch into your opening act. Half an hour later, after prancing and dancing and singing around the stage you take a pause to introduce the next act. The crowd cheers loudly before you have a chance to speak. You look around, smiling at everyone even if you can’t see them.

“London, thank you, my name is Y/n Verstappen, that’s my show for tonight,” you tease, the crowd silences. “Nah, I’m kidding. I wouldn’t leave you hanging like that, not when you are one of the best crowds I’ve had on tour,” you tell them, giving them a second to cheer.

“Since you have been such a great host, I wanted to share something special about this next song, something not many people know, but not quite yet. Quick shoutout to the F1 drivers here tonight, including my handsome husband, y’all are cool. But not as cool as everyone else here,” you purposely leave them hanging a little, blowing a kiss in the direction of Max.

“Alright, so, this next song is not only the title of my new album, but I also took parts of my vows and wrote them into the song. I hope you like it,” you say and the crowd cheers as the first chords play behind you.

“Thank you, London! Goodnight!” After the concert, you rush backstage and into Max’s open arms.

“You were incredible, Liefje” Max kisses you. Charles jokingly gags behind you.

“Thank you, Maxie,” you whisper, hugging him tight. Your assistant hands you a towel to put around your neck and a bottle of water which you happily take.

“You had a great show,” the other drivers tell you, all complimenting the show and thanking you for the tickets. You thank them for attending and excuse yourself so you could change. Max reminds them of the post-show dinner and club plans and carries you to your dressing room. You collapse on the couch, as Max chuckles at your dramatics.

“I swear the best part of a show is laying down after,” you groan and Max gently takes off your heels causing you to moan in relief.

“Y/n! People are going to think we are doing things in here,” Max laughs, you wave him off, changing into comfy but club appropriate clothes. Max helps you take off your stage makeup, and redoes your hair as you put a little bit of normal makeup on.

“Ready, Maxie?” you ask, grabbing your purse. It is nice knowing that assistants will take everything back to the hotel for you.

“I promise I will always come back home to you, I know my driving style is agressive, but I won’t make you learn how to fall asleep without me,” Max says, his hands holding your face gently.

“I know, but I will always be scared when you are on the track. You can’t promise nothing will happen, but I know you will always try,” you tell him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. You stay in his embrace for a minute until rejoining half of the paddock. I can be in love forever, if I die first…

#f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 imagines #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen imagines #Spotify

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igot-the-juice · 4 months ago

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Blood of A Rose - Part 1 (Art the Clown x Fem!Reader)

Summary - (Y/n) is an aspiring artist, but rather than mainstream, she captures what she considers to be the beauty of death. She has been fighting with the industry and local art museums to publicize her work. Reaching negative publicity, a particular clown takes an interest.

Masterlist

Notes - I see a lot of smut with little plot to build up to it so decided to write it myself. He’s always portrayed as aggressive and hasty with it, but I took a different take on it since he’s always so methodical and takes his time with what he does and I feel like that would stay the same in the bedroom or wherever else with his wild ass. Slow and torturous smut, ladies. Let me know if you’d like a continuation of this!

Word Count - 5,602

Warning(s) - Gore, depictions of graphic art, morally ambiguous reader, smut/sexual themes, no harm to reader

Song Inspiration -

IAMX - Bernadette

Ice Nine Kills - A Work of Art

The brush stroked gracefully along the canvas, a symphony of strings playing in the background as she worked. A multitude of shades of red took precedence over the piece, hints of yellow and skin tones sprinkled in where she thought was necessary.

She cleaned off her brush and took a step back, admiring her newest work, eyeing it for flaws or hints of emptiness. When she found none she smiled to herself, untying her apron and leaving to enter the house to wash herself clean of any unwanted paint that caught her skin.

She turned on the faucet, pumping soap into her hands and began to scrub. She watched as the red began to drain down the sink, sighing in delight at the sight of it.

(Y/n) had always been captivated by the concept of death. Not in the way people feared or avoided it, but in the way she saw its eerie elegance. Growing up in a household that celebrated perfection and the beauty of life, her fascination with decay and the passage of time was met with silence, sometimes disgust.

As a child, she’d spend hours sketching wilted flowers or photographing the abandoned cemetery near their house. Sometimes she found dead animals which was always a treat for her. She found beauty where others saw only ruin and death. Her parents had tried to correct her, and her teachers had labeled her work disturbing. But (y/n) remained drawn to the delicate balance between life and death.

As she grew older, the fascination deepened, and she poured it into her art. Her paintings had always included blood in one way or another, whether it was an aging object, haunted landscapes, or human forms twisted in the stillness of death. On the other hand, her photographs captured the fleeting beauty of nature’s quiet end. The decay of a flower, the pale tranquility of a body.

However, the world around her wasn’t ready for her vision. Critics were quick to brand her work as grotesque, calling it an abomination, and galleries refused to showcase her art. News articles labeled her as disturbed, questioning her mental health rather than her talent.

But for (y/n), it was never about horror. She saw beauty in the inevitability of death, in the idea that all things must come to an end. To her, it was a reminder of the fragility of existence and the raw, unfiltered truth of the world. Yet, each harsh critique was another nail in the coffin of her confidence, driving her further into herself.

She became more reserved, speaking less in public, avoiding eye contact at exhibitions - if she even attended. She longed to defend her work, but the voices of her critics echoed in her mind, silencing her before she could even begin.

Despite the noise, (y/n) still clung to her vision, working tirelessly in the small, dimly lit studio that was the garage of the small house she currently rented. Surrounded by the eerie stillness of her creations.

She began to change into something more fitting for the colder October weather, slipping on a coat to bury her hands in and walking into the crisp autumn air. As her feet tapped through the night’s atmosphere, she closed her eyes for a moment, the smell of the dying trees and asphalt sending a pleasant shiver down her spine.

She didn’t live far from the heart of Miles County, quickly reaching it and taking joy in the quietness of it all compared to the usual bustling energy during the day that she preferred to avoid.

She passed a display lined and stacked with TVs, some of them turned on and broadcasting different channels.

“- another piece was released just days ago with another overwhelming amount of negativity -“

She stopped promptly, turning her head towards one of the TVs closest to her and seeing a portrait of herself display.

“Be advised, the image is disturbing.”

Her last work was then shown. She admired it, not from an egotistical standpoint, but more from the genuine beauty of the concept.

A flower pot, chipped and cracked. An elongated and decaying finger was the stem of the flower in the pot, bloodied thorns sticking out of it every which way. Ears made up the petals, an eyeball at the center in place of a typical pistil. A radiant glow shone from behind the flower, its rays of light praising its beauty in all of its wretched glory.

Her eyes began to water as they threw out carefully constructed insults, indirect but still noticeable enough to catch.

However, what (y/n) didn’t notice was the tall, slim monochromatic figure standing behind her just feet away. Gripping the overfilled black trash bag hanging over his shoulder, he curiously watched the same TV, head tilted slightly in fascination.

She brought a balled hand up to below her nose, keeping it from running as a tear fell. Too caught up in the screen before her, she failed to notice the man that now stood next to her, watching the TV from next to her rather than behind, his bag now on the sidewalk.

Having had enough of their cruel remarks, she turned to walk back home, but gasped when she nearly collided with the strange man.

Her eyes slowly trailed up his form, landing on his white painted face, accented by the black paint around his eyes and mouth. She took in his features with curiosity and fascination, taking note of his exaggerated hooked nose, cheekbones and pointed chin.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffed and quickly wiped at her tears. “I didn’t notice you there.”

His head slowly turned towards her and his mouth widened into a dramatic smile, flashing his black-coated teeth. It suddenly turned to surprise, shaking where he stood with excitement and pointing to the TV.

“You… Do you like it?” She asked, unbelieving. He nodded enthusiastically and pointed to her, then the TV, then back to her. She caught on. “Oh, um… Yeah - yeah that’s me.”

His hands shook with another wave of excitement, his hands representing the beat of his heart, then giving a chef’s kiss.

“Well, thank you,” She sniffed again. “That means a lot to me, actually.” She gave a small giggle of amusement at his mannerisms.

He then stopped suddenly, putting his hands on his hips with a disapproving look. He ran a finger down his cheek to simulate a fake tear, then pointed to her, then the TV.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m used to it by now.” (Y/n) waved off, but the mime knew better.

He held up a finger, his mouth forming an ‘o’ with eyebrows raised, then turned to rummage through his bag. She watched curiously, wondering how this was even happening. He suddenly turned back around, presenting a rose to her with a large smile.

Again, she couldn’t help but giggle and grew bashful, her cheeks tinting red as her fingers lightly grazed his own to take the flower from him. She brought it up to her nose to smell it, a smile gracing her lips. She then felt something drip down her hand and looked down at the flower again, seeing as a drop of blood made its way down over her fingers.

“Nice touch. Thank you.” She complimented and her smile widened.

He folded his hands in front of himself, swaying as if to show he himself was bashful.

“Are you mute?” She asked curiously out of the blue.

He nodded and she smiled in understanding.

“Well, I think you’re quite charming regardless.” She spoke softly and he waved a hand at her, then raised it to his cheek as if he was blushing. Her giggles turned into laughter. “What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

(Y/n) watched as he looked up in thought, tapping his chin. He then stuck a finger up to show he had an idea and dipped a finger into the blood of the rose, turning to the glass pane with the TVs and began to write.

“Art?” She asked and he nodded eagerly, making her laugh once more. “It suits you.” He shrugged dramatically in response. (Y/n) sighed, looking at her watch reading 10:34. “As much as I love this interaction, I should head back home.” She looked back up at him and he pouted and looked down, then shot up with another idea.

He made a walking motion with his fingers, pointed to himself, then to her and pointed in the direction she came from.

“You want to walk me home?” He nodded.

She stood in thought for a moment, wondering if she should really trust the monochromatic clown. He seemed sweet enough, and it wasn’t a lie when she said he was charming. She couldn’t deny that there was something oddly attractive about his facial features, either.

Against her better judgment, she looked back up at him and gave a shy smile. “Okay.” Art clapped with glee and picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and motioning for her to lead the way.

The walk was quiet, save for (y/n) making casual conversation every now and then. It wasn’t an awkward silence when she didn’t speak, and Art seemed to be just as content as he happily walked alongside her. She couldn’t help but sneak looks at him along the way, and though he seemed blissfully oblivious he caught every glance.

She felt a pang of pity when they reached the smaller house, walking up to the door and turning to him to see him pouting once more. “Thank you for walking me. It gets lonely sometimes, to be honest.”

He looked down, swinging with sadness at the end of their walk.

“Well,” She sighed in thought. “I mean, I suppose you know where I live now. Maybe you could visit some time? I never really have company, anyways.”

His excitement reappeared, making herself happy in the process. He nodded vigorously and she laughed for the umpteenth time.

“Be safe out there, okay?” He nodded again and waved at her as she opened the door to go inside. “Goodnight, Art.” The door closed and she leaned against it, wondering what the hell just happened.

Of all people, she befriended a clown. But it was nothing against him. She supposed she just attracted the oddballs of the world given that she was deemed one herself by society.

She mindlessly prepared for bed, running through her interaction with the man over and over repeatedly. It was the only thing she could think about. No amount of distraction would keep him from her head. (Y/n) sighed as she stared up at the ceiling, hands folded over her abdomen.

When she woke up the next morning, preparing breakfast in the kitchen as the TV hummed in the background, her ears caught something rather peculiar.

“- found dead in their home just last night after neighbors reported screaming to the police. We were told photographs of the scene are too graphic to broadcast and were not provided.”

(Y/n) walked over to the TV, seeing a picture of the news anchor who insulted her work the night before, along with his family. As much as she pitied them, she couldn’t help the tsk of her tongue when they refused to provide the photographs. She had recently been relying on such photos as inspiration for her pieces, and she couldn’t do much but grow more and more curious about them.

After eating her breakfast and freshening up, she went to her desktop computer and powered it on. Having made note of the name of the news anchor, she began to search the case in hopes that they posted the photos online and came across an image that baffled her. In the middle of the article was a sketch of the suspect.

The clown she had encountered.

She stopped reading and sat back against her chair, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. He knew where she lived, and she invited him to visit. Granted, she figured if he wished her harm, he would just bust through a window or the door itself regardless of invitations.

But then she couldn’t shake his goofy mannerisms, how he showed her more kindness in one night than anyone had in all of her (y/age) years. How he showed her how much he loved her art, giving her the rose to cheer her up.

Then she remembered. Art was with her when the news anchor was insulting her work. Now he and his family are dead.

Could he have…?

Coincidence. (Y/n) shook her head.

(Y/n) stood and made her way to the garage, checking if her latest work had dried up. To her delight, it did, and she removed it from the easel to prop against the wall holding her countless other works.

The rest of the day was wasted away, filled with cat naps, snacking and binging shows. She thought of going out and doing something for herself, but the thought of being surrounded by people immediately put her off. So she decided on lounging until the sun set and could truly be in her element.

Time seemed to mock her, dragging on and on enough to make her think that it froze altogether. But alas, the hues outside grew darker and she began to prepare for her night out.

Throwing on a sweater dress, pantyhose and her shoes, she picked up her digital camera that sat on a nearby table, hanging it around her neck before making her way outside. When she turned to face the street, she jumped at the sight of Art standing nearly directly in front of her with the same oversized bag and wide grin.

(Y/n) froze, wondering if things should change between them after finding out what he did. What he could do.

She figured it was already too late if he indeed wished her harm. He knew where she lived and could easily find her. So why should she give him further incentive? And he hadn’t done anything to her personally to be rudely snubbed. The memories of the night before ran through her head, an innocent and friendly encounter.

So she indulged herself until fate decided the outcome.

“Hey, Art.” She greeted him with a gentle smile. He waved excitedly at her, then pointed at the camera around her neck with a questioning expression. “Oh, I’m just going on a walk. Trying to see if there’s anything interesting to photograph for my next piece.”

He tapped his chin and looked off, thinking. He perked up with a finger, eagerly motioning for her to follow him. Unable to contain her curiosity, she walked up to him and began to follow.

“You know a place I could find something?” He grinned mischievously at her, a silent ‘yes’.

After some walking, they came upon an older building. The walls actively rotted away, windows broken and some boarded up. He stopped with her when she paused at the front, looking up at the building in awe.

Perfection.

She reached for her camera, but his hand quickly came over hers to stop her and heat rushed up to her face. He pulled away and motioned to the building, then placed his hand over his heart endearingly. “Is this your home?” He nodded. “Oh! I’m sorry, I won’t take pictures.”

He patted her shoulder as a thank you and motioned for her to follow once more, leading her into the building.

The smell was horrid to anyone else, but to (y/n) it was just another day of work. With the countless rotting animals and even occasional mutilated body she’s encountered, she had no choice but to grow used to it. By now, the smell reminded her of her work and provided a sense of comfort in a twisted way.

However, standing in what was the killer’s home, it also struck her like a bolt of lightning. The familiar smell of blood and rot was in his home, which could only mean one thing.

“You wanted to show me something in here, didn’t you?”

Art’s smile grew impossibly wide, pointing at her to show he was impressed that she caught on quickly. He dropped his bag and held out his hand in an exaggerated gentlemanly fashion, leg kicked out and foot up on its heel, holding the same sadistic smile when she met his eyes. (Y/n) delicately placed her hand in his, his own only grasping onto her fingers with a surprising gentleness as he led her through the dark building to a separate room.

The smell grew stronger the closer they drew to the room as more and more of the all too familiar red hues began to reveal themselves.

When they finally entered, she gasped at the sight before her. Art presented his own ‘masterpiece’ to her with excitement, taking in her every reaction.

Sat on a chair in the center of the room was the remnants of a decapitated man, chest cavity wide open. Blood covered the body from neck to toe, stains coating the walls and floor around it.

At first she was frightened, but as he presented it to her she realized something. She realized that they shared the same fascination. Granted, he had a more methodical way of showing it, but artists always vary in accordance to what mediums they used, right?

“You did this?”

Art nodded eagerly, practically vibrating where he stood as he impatiently awaited for a verbal response. As she took in the sight before her shamelessly, he urged her with his hands to spit out what she was thinking.

“It’s beautiful…” She whispered breathlessly. And it was the truth. It felt as if she was staring at a blank canvas for her to mold and create into something new, with his permission of course. The possibilities were endless as they ran through her head, too many to keep track of.

Ever observant, he took notice of the turmoil and his almost innocent excitement turned into something more wicked. Something clicked in his brain as he practically watched a butterfly emerge from its cocoon before his very eyes.

He motioned to (y/n), then to the body, then with widespread arms he motioned at them together.

“You want me to create something?” She wondered if he ever suffered whiplash from nodding so aggressively, at least with her. “May I walk around to see what you have that I could use?” Another nod.

(Y/n) looked around the room, finding it completely empty besides the chair and body. She then left to wander, Art following her like a lost puppy, eager to watch her work. After searching through three other rooms, she finally found a flower pot. It had a chunk missing from the back, but she could easily turn it to where it wasn’t visible.

She turned to Art. “Do you have a cup or something to fill it with dirt?” He thought for a moment, then gave her a sign to wait before disappearing.

Her eyes wandered around what she assumed used to be a bedroom. An old mattress in the corner with an equally rotting dresser, nightstand and standing mirror.

When he reappeared, he held out a tin can to her and she gladly took it, making their way outside with the pot to fill it. He watched as she did so, taking note of the way she avoided getting herself dirty. He silently laughed to himself, pointing at her as her dainty hands refused to muddle with the soil. “What?” She questioned with her own chuckle.

He mimicked her avoiding the dirt and grime as he continued to laugh and she rolled her eyes.

“The work I showcase does not reflect my behavior. You’d be surprised how much I hate getting dirty.” (Y/n) giggled as she finished filling the pot, mindful of the missing chunk so as to not let any dirt spill. “Where did you get the rose from yesterday? Was it around here?”

He motioned for her to follow, looking back at her every now and then as he led her around the building to the back. A single rose bush was planted with only a few fully-bloomed flowers left intact. He offered to cut one of them off, and doing so he held it delicately to himself.

“Could you hold this for a second?” She held out the pot to him and he nodded. “Careful of the back, I don’t want anything to spill.” He nodded again and watched as she wandered, looking around for other plants to add to the pot. She settled on a few weeds, picking a handful of petals off of the other roses on the bush before heading back to the room with Art.

He softly set the items down in the corner as she cradled the petals in her hand, looking at the body with a tilted head. Art stood next to her, mimicking her mannerisms as he tried to understand what she was thinking of. He watched as her mouth moved to speak, but nothing followed until a few seconds after.

“Um…” She pointed to the body, looking at it for a few more seconds before turning her head to him. “Could you, um…” She took a deep breath. “Do you think you could do a couple more things to it for me?”

His face twisted into mischief, as if to say ‘I thought you’d never ask’. His palms pressed against each other, fingers twiddling as he waited for what she wanted.

“Could you flatten the top and remove the um…” She motioned to the abdomen. “What’s inside…?” His mouth made an ‘o’ in a surprised expression before shifting into the same smile, booping her nose before leaving the room, she assumed to grab supplies.

He soon returned with a hacksaw and scissors, making his way to the body to do what she asked. Her stomach grew queasy once he began and she averted her gaze out of habit.

The noise suddenly stopped and she looked back to see him standing upright with a frown. She felt a pang of fear and dare she say guilt, thinking he was offended.

“I-I’m sorry, I love the end result, but I just get squeamish with the process, is all…” She whispered almost pitifully.

He watched as her face paled and she was left baffled when he made his way over to her, saw still in hand. However, he simply pushed her out of the room into a wide open area that was further away, holding up a finger to tell her to wait before he disappeared to finish.

Her face grew hot at the gesture, stomach fluttering as a bashful smile reached her lips. When (y/n) turned, she was met with a workbench, worn stool sat in front of it. She wandered over with curiosity, eyeing the rusted tools, nails and screws that sat on top of it.

A few jars were scattered along the back of it against the wall, reading the labels. Most of them were some form of acid, others she refused to guess the result of the compound mixture.

(y/n)’s eyes lit up when she found small circular candles akin to what would be put in a pumpkin, grabbing a couple along with a match from a box sat next to them and put them in her pocket.

She jumped when the sound of metal clattering to the floor invaded her ears and she whipped around to find Art standing there, saw next to his comically large shoes. He waggled his fingers at her in a wave, motioning for her to head back to the room to which she obeyed. She passed him with the same bashful smile, remembering his kindness from earlier.

When she entered, she saw that he did indeed do as she asked and turned to Art with a wider smile. “Thank you.” The clown tipped his hat and she giggled. “Could you hold these please?” She asked of the petals and he held out his cupped hands for her to place them in.

Eyes following her like a cat, he watched as she knelt by the pot, planting the rose in the center of it followed by the other plants she picked along the way, standing and making her way to the body. She placed it in the now empty cavity of the abdomen, then turned to take the petals back from Art. She sprinkled them over the body, some inside where the pot was.

She then pulled out the candles, placing them methodically inside the abdomen, making a point to avoid touching the body itself. Igniting the match, she lit the candles and stood, looking for the light switch to turn off the overhead lights. Art caught on and immediately turned them off somehow. (Y/n) looked at him with a confused expression to which he just shrugged with a wide grin.

She shook her head and giggled, lifting the camera from around her neck, checking the settings before testing different angles through the lens, snapping photos when she came upon the ones that satisfied her. (Y/n) made her way next to Art who shook his hands with excitement.

He stood against her with their closeness, practically his entire side brushing against her from behind as he looked down at the photos she clicked through. The beat of her heart picked up, blood rushing to her ears at the realization.

“Which one do you think is best?” She asked softly, turning to look up at him to see him already looking at her.

The candlight shone ominously against his features, pale eyes piercing through her own, her smile dropping as his nose nearly touched her own. His eyebrows quickly rose and dropped, head turning as his eyes squinted with his smile. His hand slowly rose, carefully prying the camera from her hands and setting it down. As he stood back to his full height, she craned her neck to look up at him, their bodies slowly turning to face each other until he took a step towards her, (y/n) taking a step back.

Taking his time, he walked her back until her body was pressed against the wall and his figure was the only thing in her field of view. Her breath shook as his bloodied fingertips reached up to caress her jaw, settling delicately under her chin to hold her gaze.

He leaned closer, tilting his head as his nose tickled her face. The hand under her chin then moved down to her neck, his feather-like touch changing pressure as it wrapped itself around her, increasing just enough to make her gasp and he finally closed the gap between them.

The kiss was surprisingly tame for how brutal he was, her eyes closed as she gave in to the intoxicating feeling and the only thing she could think of or feel was the man that held her. As for him, his eyes remained open, taking in and savoring her every expression.

The expressions of the same twisted mind that complimented his own work, turning it into breathtaking beauty that was beyond comparison. His mannerisms grew more eager, more desperate at the thought of whatever else they could create together, his free hand finding her waist and squeezing enough to release air from her lungs audibly, a plea for more.

His tongue slid against her teeth and she welcomed the invasion, parting her mouth to take him in as his hand ran over the hump of her arse, fingers digging into the fat and muscle enough to bruise. His wanton thoughts grew to become an obsession, anger rising at the thought of her parting from his life.

Their breath mingled, his mouth moving down to her jaw, then to her pulse point where he bit down just enough to release a trickle of blood and she cried out, hand squeezing his forearm of the hand still wrapped around her neck. As he sucked at the blood, the hand moved from her neck down to her breast, kneading and toying with it as her head leaned back, swaying at the pleasure.

Her leg lifted as his other hand slid from her arse down her thigh, hugging it close to him as he shifted his leg to apply pressure at her core. He pulled away from her neck, teeth still bared in its grin but his eyes clouded with lust and greed as he took her in. Her lips were parted with need, vulnerable and exposed before him in a gamble of trust and fate.

She felt his leg shift and she whined, a shiver running down her spine once she finally opened her eyes to look up at him. The sight before her sent a pulse to her center, clit throbbing as his hand slid down from her breast to her hip, her eyes following as he slowly dropped to his knees before her.

The thigh he previously held was now over his shoulder, hands sliding the skirt of her dress up to her hips to bury his nose into her clothed pussy. She sighed at the feeling, hands moving to hold the skirt for him. Suddenly, she heard a rip, cold air hitting her core as he tore her pantyhose open to reach her.

(Y/n) watched as he looked up at her with a mischievous grin and wiggled his eyebrows, disappearing back under her skirt when she felt his warm muscle drag along her leaking center. She felt his breath fan over her, his nose tickling her bud as his tongue dipped into her, teasing her entrance before plunging into it.

The woman gasped and her back arched as he toyed with her, her hand coming down to grip one of his own that squeezed at her thighs. He shook his head eagerly as he continued his feast and she moaned at the action, rolling her hips against him. His tongue then removed itself, moving to settle on her clit and she trembled at the sensitivity.

His free hand inched towards where his tongue had been, playing with her lower lips and providing a tickling sensation before he dipped a finger in, pushing to the knuckle. His finger began to move in rhythm with his tongue, practically digging into the spongy area that drove her mad with desperation.

She let go of his hand when she felt him move it, followed by the sound of a zipper coming undone as he pulled out his hardened member, continuing to chase her high and begging to himself to hear her scream.

She felt the coil begin to build and tense up, her heart racing as her skin grew hot in anticipation. The two of them locked eyes and his own squinted, encouraging her to fall over the edge. His gaze alone was enough, her chest heaving as she leaned her head back against the wall with a cry.

She struggled to catch her breath, panting and watching Art with a fucked-out expression as he rose to his feet with a deep hunger in his eyes. Her eyes flicked down to his erection, then back up at him with brows knit in anticipation. He slipped an arm behind her, pulling her in to press her against him.

Holding her gaze, he teased his member against her entrance, brow twitching as she tried to move against his strength. His smile suddenly dropped as he impaled her with his length, mouth open as he mocked her expression with great pleasure. His grin returned as she gripped onto his shoulder, one of her legs moving to hook around his waist.

He snatched her chin when her eyes began to close, forcing her to watch him as he began to set an agonizingly slow pace. He wanted to hear her beg. Needed to hear her beg. His cock twitched at the thought of it and she moaned.

“Art…” She called breathlessly and he tilted his head to listen. “Please…” The word shook as it left her lips. The leg hooked behind him pulled him in closer and his mouth twitched as she pleaded him once more.

He lifted her other leg to wrap around him, carrying her as if she was weightless, his display of strength only deepening her arousal and need as both of her hands settled behind his neck. He suddenly began to plunge into her repeatedly, a feral noise escaping from her throat as he watched on with animalistic desire.

He angled their bodies effortlessly, paying attention to her every expression and vocal flux in order to throw her over the edge for a second time. Her moans heightened their pitch, growing louder as her grip on him tightened and his eyes somehow darkened further, thrusting harder and harder with an inhuman amount of strength and stamina.

“Art -“ He gave a single nod with a sadistic grin as (y/n)’s hands shifted to his shoulders, nails digging into the satin of his suit before she crossed over into her orgasm. One of his hands snatched her jaw, slightly squeezing at her cheeks as their noses touched. He practically stared into her soul as he soon found his own release, baring his teeth as she felt his warm stream of seed fill her.

She sighed in exhaustion as Art silently huffed to himself. He then brought his head next to hers, licking the shell of her ear.

His mind was made up. Her fate was sealed.

#art the clown x reader #art the clown #art x reader #clown x reader #terrifier x reader #terrifier 3 #the terrifier 2 #the terrifier #terrifier 2 #terrifier #x reader #art #fanfiction #cw: gore #gore #tw violence

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the2019nailstory · 2 years ago

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#nail studio near me #bridal nail art #nail extensions #nail art salon in kolkata #nail salon #Gel Nail Extension near me

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swordsandholly · 2 months ago

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Fancy: The Rewrite

Chapter One: Here's Your One Chance

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | next | masterlist | Ao3

A/N: This fic has been haunting me since I stopped working on it. I just wrote myself into a corner and sped through the story far too quickly. Plus, I have some new concepts that I think really fill out the unfortunate issues with the original. Chapter one is the most similar to the original. I'm leaving the original up on tumblr for the hell of it, but I hope you enjoy the re-write as much as I am.

A permanent darkness rests over the city; dense and unbidden. Cold, too. Despite living here your whole life you’ve never quite adjusted to the artificial nature of it - to the shadow hanging above the miles and miles of city. The chill on your skin never lifts. It leaves a shivering underneath, nearly an ache these days. Something ingrained into your very nature by your surroundings.

Really, you aren’t meant to be here. This place isn’t built for humans despite the mass that live within the confines of the city’s dome. It’s purpose made for creatures - beings of the night that stalk and rule. The air has become rotten in the lower neighborhoods over a century of pollution and overpopulation. The constant cover of the dome cannot be broken to filter it - not even for a moment can the eternal night hanging overhead end. Your lungs will turn black before the age of five without proper protection. It’s worse it summer - at least the artificially created facsimile of summer - when the air warms and wets and coats your insides. When the pollutants find their way into the water supply. As if there is any point to the heat with so sunlight in return. Your nails always have a layer of dirt crusted underneath during those months.

The lower city is nothing but old buildings on top of even older structures; all moderately crumbling in some capacity. Apartment buildings are crowded and decent living conditions are hard to come by. Many have a waitlist longer than the human lifespan. Most operate on a dorm system - at least one person per room. Randomly assigned of course, based entirely on who can pay the rent. You’ve lucked out enough to earn a shitty studio to yourself. It’s cracked and crumbling but the locks are tight and it has a window - even if the view is just a building across the alleyway. Even if the smog has turned the tempered glass a semi-opaque grey.

The slippery polyester of your black dress smooths over your skin, just as artificial as everything else in this place. You tie your hair up to show off the double string of pearls on your neck. They’re the nicest thing you own. The most authentic, at least, and the only thing that makes you seem worthy of the upper city. The only thing that can project the image needed to get proper tips - to get what you need to survive. Red lipstick as a final touch, always. It’s corny, and leaves you cringing every time you glance at the damn thing but the vampire clients are always suckers for it. Pun intended.

This job is important. There can’t be a hair out of place; can’t be a single reason to cast doubt that you are inhumanly perfect while never losing that very humanity they crave so desperately. This is your chance. Your one chance to make enough money to get out of the slums and at least make it to the middle city. Once you ruin your reputation at a place like this… well, you might as well call it permanently. You can practically hear the grime on the sidewalk as you make your way toward the metro station. Dirt and debris so caked into the very air down here that you have to wear a respirator as you go. It’ll leave marks when you first take it off, but they usually disappear by the time you’ve made it from the depot to the club.

You don’t bother with sitting on the train. Hell will freeze over before you chance catching whatever new disease has grown in that Petri dish. Instead you join the rest of the patrons in awkwardly standing in the center of the cart, damn near falling over when the train lurches to begin its journey from the slums to the upper city. There are actual names for the two areas, but nobody uses them anymore. They died two generations ago.

The respirator makes a hissing sound as you remove it after stepping out of the train. The cool, clean air of the upper city fills your lungs. It’s satisfying in a way its sticky, filtered sister could never be. The faux fur of your cropped coat tickles at your neck as you walk, blown by that strange breeze that never seems to stop up here. The one that sends all the grime and smog downhill, leaving a fog so thick you can’t even see the building lights properly.

The club sits square in central downtown - bult into the underground level of a historical hotel. It’s an elegant building. Red with curled metal accents over the windows and doors. Modeled after the ancient art nouveau movement. At least that’s what the plaque in the lobby says. You had just long enough to change a glance at it while heading up with a client once. The fixtures sparkle underneath the artificial LEDs of the city - all signs and glowing windows. You can always tell where the humans are, catching glimpses of that unmistakable glow only a UV light gives off.

You duck down the alley behind the hotel. Grimy and dark, the complete opposite of the front entrance. Your heels clack on the concrete loudly - echoing off the hard walls of the building surrounding you. If it weren’t for the small glowing sign that marks the “Back Stage” you might never know it’s there.

It’s easy enough to slip into the routine of your job. Going back and forth to the bartender, carrying various drinks and placating the egos of cowardly men and the vampires they lie to themselves about being equal to. You can see the pity in the ancient creatures’ eyes when they look at their human cohorts posturing to appease them. You can see the hunger, in equal measure, when you tilt your head, exposing more of your neck to the light; when your wrists just pass their noses as you set down their glasses. It’s all purposeful, of course, maintaining the dance of remaining just out of their grasp, but close enough that if they really wanted to take you, they could.

It’s hard work, the dance. Long hours and more days of the week than you would like, but it pays enough for you to afford your little apartment and save some for your theoretical future.

“Hey! You!” The owner barks at you as you gently set your tray back into the stack to be washed.

You whirl on your heel. Shit, did you fuck up? Your mind runs through every interaction over the course of the night - every comment, every stilted moment. Every outcome of whatever mistake you made. Being thrown out into the city before you can even gather your respirator or coat. Choking on the air as you make your way home and praying you survive the symptoms after. Though, there wouldn’t be much point to surviving them without work.

“Y-yes, sir?”

“Need you as a Companion.” He stands in front of you, the pinstripes of his suit warping over his massive, crossed arms. The wrinkle in his nose makes his mustache twitch.

“C-companion!” You squeak. “I’m not-“

“We had a mix up. Need you to take the private booth in the back.”

Your eyes are saucers - heart beating so hard you almost can’t hear him. You don’t know what to make of this. His words are nonchalant and cut right though you, but the prospect they hold… so much opportunity and disaster…

“You paying attention?” He grunts.

Your voice shakes. “Just… why me?”

“You match their preference.” Its blunt. Uncaring. Not that you would ever expect much sympathy from the owner of a place like this - feeding girls to vampires and their kin.

Generally, you’re not the type to be preferred - too big and soft for most. It’s what kept you as a server exclusively, you’re sure. Companion is such a major step up, too. You haven’t had any training. You never thought you’d get there - only a few girls make it from Server to Companion. To have it by happenstance…

With a deep breath you remind yourself that this is temporary. Just for tonight. You are acting as a replacement, nothing more. If you pull this off maybe you’ll get enough extra cash to finally replace the air filtration in your apartment. Maybe you can even get an overhead UV light. Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely!

Another tray is shoved into your hands. Is this… actual gold? You turn it over in your hands briefly. Ornate designs line the outer rim - all weaving in and out of each other inlaid with iridescent mother of pearl. It’s cold on your skin and so shiny you catch your reflection in it before the bartender sets a bottle of wine and four glasses on it. You’re fairly certain between the wine and the tray you are holding upwards of ten thousand dollars a in your hands. It takes everything to keep your hands from trembling.

You slowly head for the back booth under the scrutinizing eye of the owner - just beyond the main floor of the bar. It’s far quieter here; the music from the floor muffled by the distance. There are only a few private booths and they are only ever occupied by the city’s elite. The top of the top. You pause at the heavy, velvet burgundy curtain separating you and your clients for tonight.

You just hope they aren’t the type to get rough.

Balancing the tray on one hand, you use the other the push the heavy curtain to the side - entire body alert and tense as your eyes land on the four men sitting at the rounded booth. Their eyes meet yours, and you freeze. A shiver runs down your spine.

They’re beautiful in that way only vampires can be. Untouchable. Marble-esque. Eyes clear and bright even in the low light of the booth - that sheen of night vision apparent. Lions staring down their prey and you, who walked into the den willingly. Their stares tear through you, seemingly pulling you apart at the seams. If you didn’t know better, you’d almost think that hypervigilance leaned toward fear.

“Good evening.” It takes everything to keep your voice steady. To slip back into that comfortable service headspace you’ve curated. “I’ll be your Companion tonight.”

“What happened t’ Cherry?” The man on the outer right side of the booth asks, words slow and hushed. His arm is slung carelessly over the back of the booth, body too tense and words too stilted to sell whatever casual air he is trying for.

“She was unfortunately unable to come in tonight.” You say softly, carefully sliding the tray onto the table. “If I’m not to your standards-“

“Well, now, none of us said that.” A man with an imperial beard smiles. It softens his face - makes him look less like stone. “What’s your name, dove?”

“Fancy.” You murmur. It’s your chosen work name - based on a song your mother used to play from a century ago. All the workers names are single words. Easy to remember. Easy to request for returning quests.

“Fittin’.” The man to your left grins, bright blue eyes sparkling. His fangs catch the light - your hands tremble for a brief moment.

“Do you know who we are?” The masked man beside him asks. His voice rumbles through your nerves, all the way into your bones. You can hardly look at him - the skull covering the top half of his face makes your gut churn.

Should you know them? Oh, fuck, you probably should. Vampires live forever - their names and legacies travel across centuries. Millenia. It’s going to give you away. You’re just a low class human from the slums. You don’t know Vampires from the uppers.

The illusion of luxury only goes so far.

“It’s not a trick question.” The man to your right smiles gently, tilting his head to the side.

“No, sir.”

“Well,” The one with the beard sits a little straighter. “I’m John Price and these are my… confidants. Cohorts. Kyle Garrick, Johnny MacTavish and Simon Riley.” He gestures to each as he goes.

John Price… John Price… Nothing comes to mind. Nothing about any of them, for that matter.

“Lovely to meet you.” You smile pleasantly, slipping back into the script. Swallowing roughly and steadying yourself, you reach for the bottle and slowly pouring a tester amount into the four glasses. “Tonight we have a vintage red for you from 2089.”

John hums, swirling the glass before taking a sip. His eyes don’t leave you and you try not to shrink from them. “You remember the 80’s, Simon?”

“Which one?” The makes you pause. How many 80’s could there be?

John laughs, whole and hearty. Little crows feet appear in the corners of his eyes. “Which d’you think?”

“I remember the blood.” The masked man mutters. He doesn’t look at John either - dark eyes locked on you. You keep up the well trained smile. Neutral, comfortable.

“Och, ye would.” Johnny scoffs, taking his own glass after John gives you a nod to fill the four properly. “Cannae ever remember the good.”

“Well what’s your finest memory then Johnny?”

“There’s was this lass… think her name was Cassandra. Had the biggest tits and-“

“Enough of that. There’s a lady present.” John waves his hand. To your surprise, Johnny actually listens despite looking muffed about it. You can’t help but snort. Lady. As if.

How old are they, anyway? They look young - especially Johnny and Kyle. Definitely below thirty when they were turned. John obviously leads but that doesn’t necessarily mean he turned the rest of them. They could have just come together over the years. Vampire covens vary heavily as to why they came together. Sometimes friendship, sometimes relation, sometimes just convenience.

Simon is still staring you down, hooking a thumb under his mask to raise it just over the end of his nose. Scarred lips sip from his glass.

“Come sit, luv.” Kyle pats the booth beside him, voice hushed.

You snap out of your thoughts at the prompt - moving to sit in the empty spot beside Kyle. The next thing you know hands are on your hips, passing you over until you’re sat square in the middle as if you weigh nothing. You know vampires are strong - you’ve gotten thrown around by your fair share in the slums, whether a mugging or fucking - but it still startles you. They could crush you with barely a flick of the wrist.

Fingers brush over your shoulders, tracing the shape of them and leaving goosebumps in their wake before lowering to rest between your exposed shoulder blades.

“Tell us about yourself, hm?” John prompts.

“Oh, not much to tell.” You shrug and smile. “I’m from the city. Started here about a year ago-“

“How have we never seen ye then?” Johnny interrupts, eyes locked on your chest. You’d think he was staring at the mole just below your collarbone, but that’s probably too presumptuous. “A bonnie thing like ye…”

“Well…” You raise your hand to your mouth like you would when whispering a secret. “I’m not supposed to tell but I’m actually a server, normally.”

“Oh, really?” Kyle leans his chin on his palm. “In a dress like that?”

“What’s wrong with my dress?” You huff, letting the pliant facade slip just enough to make yourself seem real. Just a little less doll like before you return to the script.

“Absolutely nothin’.” Simon hums beside you, eyes near black under the shadow of his mask.

Your face heats. Client compliments never get to you and you’re not sure what about his feels so different. All of their attention is so intense. It dives under your skin and burrows deep in your marrow.

“So, seeing as you implied I should know who you are-“ You tilt your head and meeting John’s eye, “who are you?”

John chuckles, leaning close. “Oh, no one important. Contractors. Independently employed.”

“Ah, so, criminals.” You laugh.

“If you say so.”

“I can’t exactly judge.” You lean in as well, shoulder pressing against his broad chest. The material of his suit is soft and thick. High quality. “I mean, look where I am, hm?”

“Are ye a criminal, lassie?” Johnny grins at you, tilting his head. How he makes a mo-hawk cute is beyond you.

“Shh.” You press a finger to your lips.

“That how you got these?” You startle as John slips his fingers beneath the string of pearls, tugging ever so slightly. You meet his eye, only briefly, only long enough to see something hard behind them that wasn’t there before. He rolls the golden clasp between his fingers absently.

“I… I’ve always had them…” You frown, suddenly wracking your mind as to their origin. You’d never thought about it. They were your mother’s… you’re sure… but somehow that doesn’t feel right. The harder you think, the further the answer seems to be.

Either way, John seems placated by that. He retracts his hand, falling back into the simple banter from before. You allow you shoulders to relax, deciding to take his return to form at face value. Not that you have another option, really. It’s easy enough to look sultry, to play the part, to mindlessly flirt. Easy enough to fall into the simple back and forth. Scripted. Basic. Nothing out of the ordinary. They’re just clients at the end of the day, even if they have more money and power than your usual crowd.

You carefully refill each of their glasses as needed - mostly Johnny’s. His face would probably be red from the alcohol were he alive. You can feel their eyes on you - boring through your very being. It takes more concentration than you’d like to keep your breath from hitching when John’s finger traces the exposed upper curve of your spine above the dress. You lean forward, pushing each glass back to their respective owners.

Johnny takes your hand before you can retract it, placing gentle kisses from your palm to your wrist. He sighs shakily, teeth catching your skin ever so slightly.

“Johnny.” The masked man rumbles in warning.

“Not gonnae bite, LT… she just...” Johnny murmurs against your wrist.

“Have you ever been bitten, dove?” John asks, eyes half lidded as he stares you down.

Prey. You’re just prey.

“N-no…” You shake your head, voice smaller than you’d like. You’re not supposed to. Clients aren’t allowed to bite the girls here - it’s not one of those clubs - but in reality you’re at their mercy. To book one of these rooms they surely have the money to pay whoever necessary to do whatever they might want with you. It’s not like you’re one of those girls anyone would miss.

“Donnae look so afraid.” Johnny chuckles.

“We’re not goin’ t’bite.” Kyle leans forward. “Just curious.”

“Oh…” You whisper. Johnny drops your wrist and you pray that they don’t notice how quickly you retract it. As you settle back into the booth, you allow yourself to sink comfortably into the soft cushions. A jolt shoots down your spine as a cool finger tucks a section of hair behind your ear. Your eyes meet John’s - some undiscernible pain swirls in those grey-blues. It looks wrong, that much emotion on such a statuesque face. He glances past you, toward Simon, you think.

The next thing you know you’re blinking blearily, sitting in John’s lap with your legs across Kyle’s. The younger man’s hand rests on your leg, thumb gently stroking your ankle as you come back to sentience.

It’s like coming up from the undertow and getting your first gasp of air.

“There she is.” Johnny murmurs, smiling softly.

You were compelled - you know that much. There isn’t any other explanation for your sudden, uninterrupted blackout. It’s disorienting. You rub the corner of your eye, purposefully evening your breath. At least your clothes are all still in place. You don’t feel… used. Not bitten either. A choked sigh escapes you against your will, hands trembling in your lap.

“You’re alright, dove.” John coos, cold breath puffing against your neck. A shiver runs down your spine. How much time has passed? When… what… “Can be hard t’come out of it, hm?”

“I’m okay...” You whisper.

“Have some water.” Kyle pushes a glass toward you. The concern on his face feels foreign.

A large, empty decanter of scotch sits in the center of the table accompanied by five empty glasses. That’s the closest hint you have to how long you’ve been here. You take the glass of water shakily and sip, leaving an imprint of red lipstick on the rim.

John continues to coo and soothe down your hair. His other hand travels down to rest on your hip, holding you in place against him. It’s strange… this feeling. You’ve been compelled before briefly but it wasn’t like this. John has to be strong. Old. He’s been around a while to have that kind of power - for it to be this difficult for you to come out of the haze. Assuming he is the one that compelled out, of course, though it isn’t exactly a stretch based on his behavior.

It’s taking more concentration to keep from crying than you’d like.

Stranger, though, is the way they watch you. The way John works you back to reality. Most vampires would have been inappropriate while you were gone, wouldn’t bother with the borderline aftercare needed when coming out from under their spell. Most would have left you slumped in the booth - drained of blood or pleasure or both - laughing as they went.

You clear your throat, sitting up a little straighter and gathering your wits. “Can I get you gentleman anything else?”

They share a look, one that you can’t quite interpret.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” John asks, voice low.

You look up at him with big eyes. Childlike, almost, staring up in wonder. It’s so strange how vampires aren’t quite white - they just lack the redness of life. The pink under the skin that signifies a beating heart and limited life span.

“I’m sure.”

John presses closer, breath caressing the shell of your ear. “Thank you for being so gracious f’us, tonight.

“Always…” There’s an honestly behind the word that startles you. A craving deep in your bones to prove yourself worthy of him and his men.

Strange.

“We best be on our way.” Simon rumbles, prompting Johnny to let him out of the booth.

John’s eyes flick between yours briefly before he moves you off of his lap with the gentle touch one might use when handling fine china. As much as you want to stay there, dazed and still coming down, you have work to do. So, you stand after them and begin slowly gathering the empty glasses on the tray. They sit heavier in your hand the normal - each movement feels as though you’re moving through molasses.

A cold touch runs up your back and you freeze. Fingers trace the curve of your spine. You straighten, turning slowly only to meet those soft blue eyes again. John takes your hand, eyes alight with something you don’t understand. “I’ll tell the owner he’s wasting you as a servin’ girl. You’re made for more.”

Before you can even possibly decide how to respond, he’s gone. Disappeared through the curtain and into the forever night. Something crinkles in your hand. When you look down, slowly opening your fingers, the contents make your heart jump into your throat.

Cash. A massive roll of neatly banded cash.

How much is this? A few thousand? More?

With frightened eyes and slippery hands you tuck the cash into the secret pocket of your coat. Having that much cash on your person is so out of your wheelhouse - out of the realm of possibility- you don’t know how to react.

You didn’t even get to say thank you.

Your mind whirls as you finish up your shift, eyes glazed over while slipping on your coat and gathering your things from your locker to make the long trek home before the train stops running. The other girls look off put. A few whisper and stare. The air is heavy with the implication that they know something you don’t. They must. You aren’t exactly in on the gossip.

What do they think you did?

Then again, you think as you brace yourself for the lurching and squealing of the metro, there isn’t any way to know what happened. Not unless one of the vampires tells you, and good luck prying any information out of one of them. Even if they tell you, they can just make you forget all over again.

How did you behave? Were you the same as always? Were you an entirely different person?

Some people forget themselves when under compulsion - every inhibition thrown to the wind carelessly. You need your inhibitions. They keep your job secure and yourself safe. You can’t afford carelessness.

The walk back home is tense. That small bulk in your pocket burns a hole though you as your mind runs with every possibility of what might have happened. What you might have done to earn such a massive tip. It can’t have been dignified, could it? There’s no way they just like you. That’s not how vampires are. Then again, at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter. They liked you enough to pay you. There isn’t any point in trying to dissect such a simple transaction beyond that.

It takes everything to motivate yourself to actually take off your clothing and jewelry before falling into bed. However long they had you, it drained you. Left you tired and shaky as you crawl under the thick bundle of quilts that make up for the lack of heating in your home.

Your eyes meet the wad of cash that barely fit in the inner pocket of your coat. It feels like a threat. Use me well or lose me forever! Make me count because you’ll never see me again!

For now, at least, you can bask in the simple victory of it.

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#vampire au #poly 141 x reader #poly 141 #john soap mactavish #captain john price #john price #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #fem reader #fat reader #plus size reader

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0bticeo · 3 months ago

Text

lay your hands on me | dabi x reader

summary.

he holds up his hand before your face, fingers spread wide, big enough to encompass your whole face.

he could kill you. burn you to ashes. you should be a little concerned with how unpredictable he proves himself to be at times.

you’re not. if anything, you’re watching, enraptured, as his hand looms closer to your face.

what he does next nearly kills you.

“open wide for me.”

wc. 2.9k

tw. reader is an oblivious idiot, spoilers for the overhaul arc, slight canon divergence bc fuck you the league gets to keep the bar in kamino, hand fetish, finger sucking, finger fucking, alley sex, kissing, somehow very soft (they were supposed to fuck nasty i don't get it.)

being a UA dropout isn’t all bad. neither is kamino district. no, really. you just have to know the right spots.

and you had time to do so ever since eraserhead’s wonderful decision of kicking you out of the damn school. something about how vigilantism wasn’t tolerated. something about how you, as a third year, should have known better.

you were close. so close to graduation. then it happened. it. your one true heroic act.

no cameras, no shiny deals, no public appreciation, no nothing. just you, a creep following a seven year old, and dark, dark streets.

you acted out of sheer instinct, the ink on your forearms springing to life, twin tattooed snakes sinking their fangs into that bastard’s skin.

the girl was fine. blissfully unaware. the creep, not so much, sprawled in a dark alley near your favorite conbini. you’re not too sure about the inner workings of venom. not the the one given life to by your quirk.

somehow, you have a feeling it hurts like hell.

having principal nezu sit you down and kindly explain that you would no longer be attending classes at UA, mouse-head split in a wide grin, hurt more.

“what are you sanctioning me for, exactly?” you ask, knuckles turning white with how tight you’re holding your tea cup.

he smiles at you. you feel every condescendent edge of his rodent teeth.

“vigilantism is illegal, as i’m sure you well know.”

"you-”

“aizawa-san already filled me in on the details.”

a sharp inhale. of course. of course, just because there aren’t any cameras doesn’t mean there aren’t witnesses. it’s not like the girl could testify. you made sure to be quiet. you made sure the creep was quiet.

you set your teacup back on its saucer, the rim silent as it meets the porcelain. nezu watches you, his eyes dark and empty. intelligent. inhumane. he sighs.

“such a shame to lose a student of your caliber. but the law is the law. no exceptions can be made,” he says, quietly sipping his tea.

you smile. it doesn’t reach your eyes. you think your palms might be bleeding with how hard your nails are digging in the skin. it’s fine. the deep green of your skirt is dark enough for the nature of the stain to be unidentifiable.

“please. i have nowhere to go.”

the law is the law. nevermind that attending UA is expensive. in the promotion material, they mention the entrance exam (not that you can get yourself killed in it), the heroes (celebrities!) serving as professors, the facilities.

now, the government might be funding a part of the infrastructure - those killer robots they have at the entrance exam aren’t going to finance themselves - but the rest? the tuition fees are expensive enough for the students to enter the hero life in debt.

it’s fine. those from UA are pretty much destined to make it big. it’s not the best hero school in the country for nothing.

the law is law.

you’re kicked out of school three weeks away from graduation without a backup plan. the only thing you have to yourself is a dingy studio in kamino district.

(aizawa had crossed paths with you on your way out of nezu’s office. he’s watched your eyes turn cold, and for a split-second, wondered if the law was fair.)

back on track. cut to four years of fruitless job hunting because nobody wants an UA dropout in their agencies. doesn’t matter if you were the top of your class, if endeavor himself wanted you to work under him at some point.

all they see is the black mark on your resume and the ink spreading and spreading over your skin, wrapping along your arms.

they smile and deny you the job you oh so need.

bye, bye morale, hello shoplifting. you’re quick on your feet and nimble-handed. get in, get out, you don’t get caught.

until you steal from the wrong person. until a hand wraps around your wrist, all five fingers digging in your flesh with the intention to kill.

meeting shigaraki tomura was… an interesting experience. so was your skin not decaying. maybe a side-effect from your quirk. your arms are more ink than skin these days. more tattoos, more power.

maybe your wrist being still intact landed you here. maybe it was the hero killer stain, his blade digging in the roots of a corrupted system and twisting. heroes are rotten, you know. true heroism is punished.

maybe you were angry, too.

so now you spend your nights sitting in the league of villains’ base. a bar. it’s classier than expected for a ragtag team of villains. you highly suspect kurogiri’s distinguished demeanor is the sole reason for the said classiness.

shigaraki’s ranting again, chipped nails scratching his neck hard enough to bleed.

you’re barely listening, sprawled as you are on the counter. there’s a scrap of paper in front of you and a pen in your hand. on you doodle, hand cradling your cheek, occasionally humming to show you’re still listening.

everybody’s here for a change.

twice, being his usual versatile self, one minute praising shigaraki’s genius planning, the next tearing it to shreds with a few well placed curses. troubled little fellow, really sweet. once lent you his lighter, so he’s high up in your good graces.

next to you, toga kicks her feet, golden eyes glinting mischievously in the low lighting. there’s a wide grin tugging at her face, revealing sharp canines. she’s eager to get back in the fray. something about seeing a certain izuku.

compress is fiddling with his gloves. shimmering orbs flash between his skilled fingers, twirling between them before disappearing wherever. a magician never reveals his secrets. how he managed to gain back such skill after losing his arm is beyond you.

spinner is watching on seriously. bless him.

(magne’s dead. your grip on your pen tightens.)

and dabi…

dabi’s leaning on the counter to your left, elbows nonchalantly propped up against its wooden surface, the sleeves of his jacket baring a hint of his bicep.

you watch, eyes half-lidded, the curl of his wrist, the way his fingers drum against the lapel of his jacket, flexing, flexing.

you shift in your seat, crossing your legs.

three strokes of your pen. the shape of his hands come to life.

broad and warm, the skin of his palms pulled taut by the staples holding him together, little flashes of silver.

the fingers, next. clever. long. deft. curled in a way that has the fine lines of his knuckles jutting out and your cheeks warming. still, not quite right.

you glance at his hand again and find it wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the heat of them fogging up the glass. there it is, again. that slow drumming, index finger tap, tap, tapping away on the glass. the staples on the back of his hand dig in his skin, right under the bone.

you bite back a groan.

hands are hard to draw.

you don’t know what it is about his fingers, but you can’t get them right. doesn’t matter if your muse is right there, a barstool away from you, sitting pretty with those damned fingers of his, you can’t seem to will your pen to mimic them.

you risk another glance and meet blue, blue eyes. something like amusement flashes in them, his lips quirking up by a fraction. heat creeps up your neck. you twirl your pen and advert your eyes.

“irezumi-chan.”

leave it to shigaraki to give you dumb nicknames.

you tilt your head.

“yes?”

“are you listening?”

turns out you’re needed for a job involving, out of all things, your tagging skills. and why the hell not. if the boss man wants you to sneak around in shady neighborhood near the shie hassaikai’s quarters in the dead of night, who are you to say no. (they’ll pay for what they did to magne.)

surprisingly, dabi’s drawled out a “count me in”, before downing his whiskey. (you’ve watched with bated breath his adam apple bob up and down as he swallowed his liquor.)

so dabi’s tagging along, hands regrettably shoved deep in the confines of his pockets.

you’re not disappointed. absolutely not.

just worrying about your safety. understand, your quirk makes it so that you practically have to be half-naked for maximum efficiency. skin revealing tops and all, because you’re tired of your clothes being rippef to shreds whenever your tattoos come to life. so dabi’s hands in his pockets? they’re limiting his ability to defend you both if needed be.

nevermind the speed with which he fights, spread hand igniting from palm to fingertips, fire flashing bluer than his eyes as he burns it all. nevermind your own skills. it’s just that these yakuza bastards are lethal, more so than the league.

yeah, right. and tattooing your back piece yourself was an easy ordeal.

you let out a sigh and stop dead in your tracks, eyeing a wall. covered in graffiti, the whole surface of it a mess of superposed designs.

“this should do.”

dabi leans back on the opposite wall, crossing his arms over his chest.

“do your thing.”

you crack your knuckles, your wrists, grab the spray paint and get to work. here’s the great thing about your quirk. whatever you draw can come to life, as long as you’ve seen it beforehand. call yourself yoshihide and your quirk hellscreen with how good you are.

the medium doesn’t matter - the drawing comes to life if you will it so. and sure, it might disappear after an hour’s worth of use, but given your drawing skills, it’s versatile enough to give you the advantage in a fight.

the smell of spray paint fills the air, black micro droplets dusting your fingertips, your wrist. you kneel, leaning back ever so slightly to assess your handiwork.

you cannot afford to mess this up. not if you want shigaraki’s admittedly funky plan to succeed - and given you know UA is going to involve itself with that bastard overhaul… oh well. you don’t mind giving the students an explosive hand. as a thank you gift.

smoke curls in front of you. nicotine.

you groan, rising to your feet and brushing the dust off your cargo pants.

“really dabi?”

you don’t need to turn around to know he’s grinning.

that grin.

the one that has him baring just a sliver of teeth, stitches pulling at the corner of his eyes with the mischievous glint flashing in them. a menace.

“what?” he drawls. “can’t handle a little smoke?”

you shake your can of spray paint with a grumble.

“i’m trying to quit.”

a low chuckle.

“poor you.”

a lick of warmth at your back. you stop drawing that grenade. no need to mess it up. you feel the lean heat of him before he presses against you, fingers trailing up, up your arm, from your wrist to your collarbone- he’s tracing your tattoos.

“you know, you get real cute when you’re flustered.”

his nail presses down on the detail of one of your pieces - a dragon’s scale, its great maw gaping open in a blast of heat stretching over your shoulder. you shudder. his hair brushes against your cheek.

“i’m not flustered,” you mumble, weakly.

he chuckles, low and warm and just a little mean. you feel the vibration of it on your back, spreading deep in your ribcage. you think you’re forgetting to breathe.

“no?”

his fingers come to view, joints stretching the skin taut. they’re big, thumb massaging your forearm, digging in the coils of the leviathan snaking around your wrist.

“i see the way you look at me when i fight. at the bar…”

your mouth goes a little dry. you lick your lips and feel dabi’s breath on your cheek, his nose brushing your ear. he could take a bite out of you with how close his mouth is to your neck.

“hands are hard to draw.”

you don’t see his grin. you don’t see the white flash of teeth you’ve grown to love, the way his lips split wide, stitches pulling and pulling at the seams of his mouth.

“hands?” he lifts one of them, the one that isn’t lighting a fucking inferno at your hip with how maddening his touch is, his index slowly tracing your waistband. “you like my hands, huh?”

you whine. actually fucking whine at that, low and needy and desperate, hips pressing back against his.

and fuck, if the way he laughs at that doesn’t turn you to putty in his hands, you don’t know what does.

he holds up his hand before your face, fingers spread wide, big enough to encompass your whole face.

he could kill you. burn you to ashes. you should be a little concerned with how unpredictable he proves himself to be at times.

you’re not. if anything, you’re watching, enraptured, as his hand looms closer to your face. what he does next nearly kills you.

“open wide for me.”

his fingers curl, index and middle held before your mouth, pressing down on your lower lip, teasing it before they slip in you, resting on your tongue.

you taste him - something salty and distinctly him that makes your head spin.

his fingers are warm, the entirety of him is, and you’re panting against him, your own fingers clenching your can of spray paint like a vice.

his free hand snakes under your shirt, splaying over your chest, burying itself between the plushness of your breasts. he feels your heartbeat, wild, erratic little thing against his palm.

“that’s it… now suck.”

a metallic clang rings somewhere in the distance. you wouldn’t know where, with the sharp ringing in your ears, the way the world has narrowed down to dabi’s heavenly touch.

tiny pinpricks of cold brush your chin, lightning flashes of pleasure as his staples make contact with your skin, as his nails drag against your nipple, pleasure-pain at its finest.

he’s dragging his fingers, pushing down on your tongue as you eagerly suck on them. he mouths at your neck, the press of teeth against your skin having you keening around his fingers.

you think you’re burning, little inferno of desire wasting away in his arms, your hips grinding against his, eager, eager…

he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, thin threads of saliva linking them to your parted lips, and you whine at the loss.

then his fingers find your slit and drag, and his touch is scorching against your core and you’re begging. wet little sounds fill the alleyway, and it’s loud, the only thing you can hear. and fuck, the way his thumb circles your clit just right-

and that fucker takes his hand out of your pants and brings it to his face with a low chuckle, thin threads of your slick coating his fingers from the tip to the knuckle. your eyes widen, the sight embedded in your retina.

he grins against your cheek.

“i’ve barely touched you…”

there’s a hint of awe in his voice, you think, hazily. then again, you’re not sure. not really. you’re impeccably warm like this, all pressed up against dabi’s lithe body, head lolled back on his shoulder.

“dabi, please…”

he spins you around, all but slamming you against the wall behind you. you groan, because fuck, every single nerve ending in your system is begging for release, and the acrid scent of spray paint is filling your senses, and you’re pretty sure it’s smudging against your back-

you meet his gaze and your breath catches in your throat.

he’s watching you, blue, blue eyes swallowed up by his pupils. he’s panting, you realize, lips bloody with how hard he’s bitten them. you’ve never seen anything more beautiful than him, looming over you in the flickering glow of a streetlamp, the golden light swallowing him whole.

“let me draw you,” you blurt out, cheeks heating up immediately.

he laughs, a low, raspy little thing of a chuckle as his fingers find your core again and you gasp at his touch.

“you already do, don’t you?”

you feel you might spontaneously combust and die, your head tilting to the side, trying not to meet his stare. you don’t see his smile, inexplicably fond.

“c’mon, look at me. i wanna see your pretty face when i make you cum on my fingers.”

his forehead presses against yours, his fingers digging in your hips, in the meat of your thigh. your breath mingles with his in sharp little gasps as he resumes unraveling you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

it’s unfair, the effect he has on you, how good he is with these blasted fingers of his. you fist at his clothes, hands burrowing in the strands of hair at his nape, tugging hard enough to make him groan, low and heavy in your ear. his fingers curl. you keen, falling apart as you choke around his name.

his lips press against your neck, a soft, almost chaste peck.

“you did so good for me, pretty.”

you’re about to gently push him away from you. you have a job to do, a revenge to take, and the clock’s ticking-

then his lips are on you. he’s kissing you, his lower lip a stark contrast with his upper lip, the perfect blend of soft roughness. you close your eyes, melting against him.

he’s kissing you, and the job can wait for a little while.

#dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #mha x reader #mha x you #mha x y/n #bnha x reader #bnha x you #bnha x y/n #touya todoroki x y/n #touya todoroki x you #touya todoroki x reader #obticeo writes #dabi smut #touya todoroki #dabi #mha #bnha

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hazbinshusk · 4 months ago

Text

day seven of salem's unofficial attempt at kinktober: sleepy sex (huskerdust x afab!reader)

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You stir slowly as you feel the mattress shifts behind you, lifting your head reluctantly from Husk’s chest. His arms are banded loosely around you; the bartender is purring softly, his tail wrapped around your thigh where they’re stretched out beside his. A soft series of oinks catch your attention, banishing some of the sleep-induced confusion clinging to your brain. “Angel?”

The spider straightens from where he’s pulling off his boots, giving you a small smile over his shoulder before he turns back and bends down to dote quietly on Fat Nuggets. You smile softly as you listen to the piglet’s happy snuffling before he trots back to the pile of cushions that you’d arranged in the corner for the nights Angel is stuck late at the studio.

Angel climbs into the bed behind you, a cool rush of air making you shiver as he lifts the blankets to slip beneath them with you and Husk. “Hey, sugar. Miss me?”

“Always,” you murmur, smiling as Angel slips his arm around your middle, pressing himself up against your back. He slides another arm over to touch Husk’s hip, carding his fingers into the fur there. The bartender’s purrs double as though he can sense that his other partner has finally joined the two of you. “Is it a talk about it night?”

Angel shrugs, burying his face against your hair. The soft expanse of silky fur against your back tells you Angel has stripped down to his underwear – apparently too wiped to bother with his pyjamas – and you settle yourself back against Husk’s chest. “Did ya wear him out?”

You breathe a quiet laugh, stretching up to press a kiss to the underside of Husk’s jaw. He shifts slightly, his nose twitching. Husk turns his head to bury his face against the top of your head, and Angel smooths his hand down over the cat demon’s thigh. You feel the spider shift his face against your hair, and you can picture the way he’s bringing his nose up to brush against Husk’s.

“We were waiting for you.”

Angel coos playfully, releasing your waist to tuck hair away from your neck. “Aww, toots, ain’t you sweet?”

You can’t help but giggle as he gives your neck a teasing, biting kiss, raising your shoulder in hopes of warding him away. Angel echoes the sound, his laughter doubling as his runs a hand up to tickle against your side and you elbow him in retaliation.

“You two mind?” Husk’s sleep-rough tenor sounds in the near-dark, a red wine chord to match the bloody light staining the far wall from between the curtains. “Some of us are tryin’ to sleep.”

“Aw, Huskie, you’re up!” Angel grins, swinging a long, long leg over you and bringing himself up to straddle the bartender’s waist. The cat rolls his eyes in tired amusement, one hand coming up to smooth up over Angel’s thigh, claws dishevelling the fur. His other paw catches hold of your hand and squeezes it. Husk presses a kiss to your forehead, and while his purr has diminished now that he’s awake, you can still hear the softest of trills beneath his words.

“I am now.”

“Our girl here said you held out for me all night,” Angel tells him, running all four of his hands through Husk’s chest fluff. “Is that true?”

“Maybe I was jus’ tired.” Husk suggests, a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth.

“Well, now I’m offended,” you joke, and Husk hums sympathetically, turning his head to bring his mouth to yours. You smile into his kiss, tongue meeting his and enjoying the way he moans quietly into your mouth as Angel’s hands travel over his body. His upper hands tease at the cat’s chest and ear, the lower two scratching their nails down over his hipbones.

“Mmm…” you hum happily as Husk withdraws. “Forgiven.”

“’ppreciate it, doll.”

“Don’t let him off that easy, sugar,” Angel tells you, bending down to take Husk’s lips for himself. You watch them kiss, the way Angel arches his back and Husk leans up into the embrace making butterflies swirl in your stomach. The spider grinds down over Husk’s lap, and the other man groans into his mouth. “You won’t believe what kitty here’ll do if he thinks ya mad at him.”

“Don’t give her ideas,” Husk retorts playfully. “Don’t need the two o’ you teamin’ up on… Christ…”

Husk lets his head fall back as Angel manages to push his briefs down and wrap a delicate hand around Husk’s cock. He pumps it slowly, letting his thumb tease over the head of it with each stroke of his fist. Angel raises his hips over Husk’s, grinding his ass down against him as his hand reached the base of his cock and squeezes.

“Oh, fuck…” Husk’s paw tightens around your hand, and you roll onto your stomach to press yourself into his side. You kiss up along his throat, lingering at the corner of his jaw. “Fuuuck, baby…”

“Which one?” you murmur with a grin, leaning up to dust kisses over his cheek and muzzle. “Careful how you answer: you don’t want to offend anyone.”

Angel snickers, following your lead and bending down to press kisses over Husk’s neck. He continues lower, sliding down the other demon’s body to mark it with soft bites that leave damp marks alone his fur. “That’s more like it, toots.” he smirks, teasing warm breath over Husk’s twitching, stone-hard cock.

“You two are gonna be the second fuckin’ death of—”

Husk moans, throaty and loud, as Angel takes him deep into his mouth.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Watching the two of them move together is like poetry; the way Angel arches his back when Husk thrusts up to meet him, the way Husk’s large hands encircle the spider’s slender hips. Whenever you pull away from Husk’s mouth to catch your breath, you find yourself distracted by the way they look together, the soft, high-pitched little ‘ah, ah, ah’s’, Angel lets out each time he sinks back down on Husk’s cock.

Husk’s mouth teases over your neck dazedly, the rough line of his tongue making you shiver. He kisses your throat, your jaw, the shell of your ear… teeth grazing over your skin wonderfully. Angel’s holding your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. Two more of his hands are braced against Husk’s chest, the fourth playing with the fur over his hipbone.

“He’s so pretty,” you murmur admiringly as you watch Angel ride your partner, squeezing his hand affectionately.

Husk nods into your throat, breath warm against your sensitive flesh. “Both…”

“How’s he feel, Husk?” you ask quietly. “Tell me how he feels.”

Husk groans brokenly as Angel rolls his hips pointedly over his; the porn star smirks down at the two of you at his reaction. A purr rumbles through Husk’s chest, his hand finding your breast. He squeezes it, teasing your nipple with his thumb. Your breath catches at the sudden sensation. “Fuckin’ good…”

“Is that all?” Angel’s sarcasm is ruined by the way his voice shakes, and when Husk wraps his other hand around Angel’s cock, the spider moans. “Fuck, Husk…”

Husk is shaking, his tail thrashing against the sheets. You bring his mouth back to yours, kissing him in a long, languid embrace. “It’s okay, baby,” you promise him quietly, speaking against his lips. “You don’t have to hold out for me.”

“Doll…”

“Look at Angel,” you tell him. The other sinner is riding him at a disjointed, eager pace, his head falling back and his mouth open in near-silent moans. His eyes roll back when you reach up to scratch your nails through the fur of his inner thigh. “He’s so close, Husk…”

“Christ…”

“You feel so good inside him, baby,” you continue, raising your voice just enough for Angel to catch your words. “He wants to feel you cum inside, feel you fill him up…”

Angel moans, nodding desperately. “Please, Huskie…”

“Cum for us, Husk,” you urge him, and Husk whines as your breath tickles against his ear. It flicks automatically, his hips rising off the mattress to fuck himself deeper into Angel’s tight hole. “Come on, baby, let go. We want you to… I want to hear how good you two sound when you cum.”

Angel’s still pleading, repeating ‘please’ over and over again as he hunches forward, his body shuddering as he sits on the knife’s edge of an orgasm. His voice is high-pitched and reedy, his eyes heavily-lidded as he watches the two of you. “God, fuck, Husk, please… I wanna… fuuuuck…”

You kiss Husk’s muzzle, press another to the base of his ear. “Cum for us, Husk.”

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